


Three Little Words

by adelagia



Category: Merlin (TV)
Genre: Established Relationship, Future Fic, Humor, M/M, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-04-03
Updated: 2013-04-03
Packaged: 2017-12-07 08:19:35
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,560
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/746356
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/adelagia/pseuds/adelagia
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Arthur gives Merlin a promotion. It comes with somewhat dubious benefits.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Three Little Words

**Author's Note:**

> Many thanks to humbuggirl for always being lovely, enthusiastic and helpful whenever I ask her to read these things for me. This fic is for jandjsalmon, who needed a little pick-me-up. Originally posted on LJ in 2009.

I hate you."

"Yes, I know." A smirk.

"No, I mean it. I really, _really_ hate you," Merlin said, and rued the lack of conviction in his voice, distracted as he was by Arthur's bare chest and muscled thighs.

It wasn't fair. He'd been sharing Arthur's bed for years now, and seriously, Arthur had no right to still take his breath away every time he leapt out of bed, heedless of his nakedness, and shone bright and glorious like the sun. Especially not when Arthur was embarking on a truly ludicrous idea like this one, with a maniacal grin that was deeply unsettling. Merlin remembered that expression from the night he'd poisoned himself in Arthur's stead, when he'd been made to put on his official livery and had watched Arthur hide a laugh every time Merlin accidentally swiped someone in the face with his feathers. This time would probably be no different, except Merlin might poke someone's eye out instead with the ridiculous thing Arthur was asking him to wear. There probably wouldn't be poison involved either, though Merlin was beginning to consider it a viable alternative.

" _Really_. A lot," Merlin said ominously, flopping back against the pillows, and folded his arms.

"Yes, I heard you the first time, Merlin," Arthur said, in the sort of calm, detached tone one might employ when dealing with a disagreeable toddler.

Somehow, Merlin did not find this mollifying in the least. He plucked at the bed linens in annoyance, partially at himself, because he knew he'd wind up bowing to Arthur's wishes in the end; arguing this was worth a try, though. "I'm not your servant anymore; you can't make me."

"Of course I can. I'm the king. If I wanted you to parade around the courtyard with nothing but a basket of fruit on your head, it would happen," Arthur said flippantly, and then looked oddly delighted with himself for having said it.

And if ever there was a fledgeling thought that needed to be viciously hacked off at the knees, Merlin had just smacked right into it. " _No,_ Arthur," said Merlin. "As your Court Advisor For All Things Suspicious and Magical, I --"

"That is not your title."

Merlin rolled his eyes. "It might as well be."

Six months after dissolving the ban on magic in Camelot, Arthur had got it into his head that Merlin deserved a promotion. He'd met with some resistance from the court, as it was practically unheard of that a mere servant should not only rise through the ranks to sit in the king's inner circle, but do it in what came down essentially to the blink of an eye. Arthur had been unrelenting, though, because he was the sort of king who rewarded loyalty and love with the same, broke down age-old barriers as if they were made of nothing but dust and sand, and trusted his head and heart in equal measure.

And that was how, a few hours, several jugs of wine, and Merlin accidentally passing by and accidentally listening in later, the court agreed upon appointing Merlin as Chief Counsellor for Thaumaturgical Management and Defence.

Merlin hadn't wanted the job, not really; he got on well enough as Arthur's manservant and would have gone to his grave happy if that's all he ever was. But Arthur wouldn't hear of it and had launched into a stirring speech about about how much he valued Merlin and needed him at his right hand if he was ever going to become the great king and champion of Albion Merlin had always told him he'd be, and, as seemed to be the case distressingly often enough, it had all somehow devolved into urgent, pressing kisses and heated caresses and _yes, Arthur, please_ , which Arthur had triumphantly taken as Merlin's acceptance of his appointment.

Arthur, that dear, utter bastard, who could school the whole world in matters of ethics and honour, seemed perfectly happy throwing all rules of fair play out the window when it came to getting Merlin to do what he wanted. Though if he admitted it to himself, Merlin was usually only too happy to go along, not that he'd ever give Arthur an easy time of it.

Besides, the job title made him sound like a complete tosser.

"It took the court hours to come up with that name for you, you know," Arthur said.

"Why can't I just be 'Merlin, Court Magician'?" Merlin whined, for what seemed like at least the fifteenth time since he'd heard the ridiculous title he was going to be officially saddled with later that evening at his induction ceremony. "Why do I have to be 'Merlin, Chief Counsellor of Everything We're Afraid Of and Let's Just Let Merlin Deal With It'?"

"Because 'Court Magician' makes it sound like you perform party tricks when the jester isn't available, and I won't have that. Not for you," Arthur said, a flash of seriousness darkening his eyes before quickly being replaced by the pure, boyish amusement that few else but Merlin got to see. "Anyway, you're not officially Chief Counsellor of anything yet. Not until tonight, and not until you wear _these_."

Merlin cast a vehement glare at the robes and hat Arthur had cheerfully laid out on the bed, the stuff of nightmares and future embarrassments. The robes were fine, if a bit purple. They'd make Merlin look sickly at worst, but the _hat_ , a conical construct embellished with a crescent moon and a litter of stars, was an affront to all things good and holy. "Did I mention how much I hate you?"

 

Arthur climbed back into bed and flung an arm around Merlin's shoulders. "It's possible. You talk an awful lot; I just stream in and out."

Merlin tamped down the urge to hurl the hat out the window and see if Arthur paid attention then. "You have an unnatural preoccupation with putting me in horrible hats. It's a disease, really."

"I'm quite sure _two times_ doesn't signify a conclusive pattern," Arthur said reasonably.

"You're just sore I set that feathered monstrosity on fire, and now you're trying to avenge it, aren't you?"

"Yes, Merlin. As is my royal duty, I'm righting a grievous injustice for maligned headgear everywhere." He picked up the obnoxious hat and tipped it around his fingers. "I had this designed specially for you, you know."

"Did you?" Merlin said, slightly surprised. Warmth and consternation fought for territorial control in his chest; he liked that Arthur did things specially for him, though the king would never, ever cop to actually being something of a sweetheart, but Merlin also suspected that the hat had been designed specifically to rile him for Arthur's own amusement. "I thought you had better taste than that."

"Well, considering how I could have my pick of any eligible person in the entire land and yet am still somehow stuck with you, I think the conclusions draw themselves."

"You managed to insult us both there," said Merlin, patting Arthur's leg with a familiarity he had once never thought possible and was still occasionally surprised that Arthur let him get away with it.

"It's a gift," Arthur said, and tried to drop the hat onto Merlin's head. "Wear the hat."

Merlin batted his hands away. "No. Not happening. It's hideous, and you're a prat for making it hideous."

"It's _fetching_ ," Arthur insisted, a catch of laughter in his voice because they both knew that wasn't true at all.

"I'm not wearing it. Ever. Not even if you had me drawn and quartered."

Arthur scoffed. "Do you take me for some kind of barbarian? I don't _need_ to torture you, Merlin," he said, his voice suddenly dropping to a much lower register. "All it takes is some gentle persuasion."

Abruptly, Merlin found himself pinned underneath Arthur, his wrists clamped loosely above his head, and his hips rose instinctively to meet Arthur's, a dance they had danced a thousand times before and only got better with each turn. Arthur lowered his head slowly, lips brushing Merlin's just so. Anticipation skittered across his skin, leaving gooseflesh in its wake, and one day Merlin really needed to sit Arthur down for a talk about how he should use his powers of seduction for things more important than the wearing of ugly hats, but now was absolutely not the time, because when Arthur _looked_ at him like that, like he only existed to love Merlin thoroughly and deeply, there was no space left in his heart or head for coherent thought, and Merlin would gladly walk off a cliff right now if Arthur asked him to.

Instead, there was a flurry of lips and hands and teeth and tongues, their limbs intertwined inextricably like vines on a trellis, slaking Merlin's want just long enough for it to build threefold with each new breath and fevered touch.

And Arthur, who was horrible and perfect and his, worried Merlin's earlobe between his teeth, breath harsh and hot, and said, "Wear the hat or I'm stopping."

"I hate you," Merlin groaned, and laughed into the warm, golden curve of Arthur's neck, knowing he was well and truly lost because there was nothing he could deny Arthur, not his pride, not his vanity, not his heart.

"Yes, I know," said Arthur softly, fondly, and kissed him to say something completely different.


End file.
